


Cops and Robbers

by manic_intent



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: And Sherlock is unceasingly obnoxious, But in the end, Full spoilers for S1, M/M, Rough Sex, That fic where Tommy Gregson is not a babysitter, he knows who to go to who can put him together again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tommy Gregson first meets Sherlock Holmes, he's briefly convinced that the man's a psychic. God knows he's seen stranger things during his beat in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cops and Robbers

**Author's Note:**

> Because this was the only pairing that pinged me in Elementary. :3 Also, Aidan Quinn, ♥
> 
> NOTE: FULL SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1

I.

When Tommy Gregson first meets Sherlock Holmes, he's briefly convinced that the man's a psychic. God knows he's seen stranger things during his beat in New York.

There had been perfunctory introductions, performed by Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, with a barely hidden pained grimace, and then Sherlock had ignored his outstretched hand, frowned slightly at him, and asked, "Lieutenant, do you really still think that you should be dead?"

"What?" Tommy blinks, hand frozen awkwardly in the air, "How… what-"

" _Holmes_ ," Lestrade exhales, long-suffering, and the man looks older than his forty years, the bags beneath his eyes deeper as he rucks his fingers through his silvery hair. "You _promised_."

"I promised to behave myself today by limiting myself to, by your words Inspector, only 'one observation maximum about the NYPD guest, if you absolutely must and by 'one' I mean the least interesting one'," Holmes drawls, rocking back on his heels, shoulders ramrod tight, chin up, like a doll, twitching off balance. "And so I have." 

"In what world was that the-" Lestrade swallows the rest of his words, sighs, and squares his shoulders. "Never mind. Lieutenant Gregson, Holmes is a little eccentric. More than a little. Make that 'very'. Holmes, the things you wanted are in Evidence." 

"Right," Holmes nods stiffly at Tommy, and ambles off without another glance. Tommy frowns at his back, though when he turns around to face the Inspector, Lestrade's shaking his head.

"Don't ask me how he does it. It's been years and I still don't quite follow his 'methods'." Lestrade admits vaguely. "He claims that he can tell things about what you are and what you've been doing from what you're wearing, your hands, your gait, that sort of thing."

"'Claims'?"

"He gets results," Lestrade shrugs. "He's always right." The Inspector pauses, as though belatedly realizing what this would mean for Tommy, and adds, awkwardly, "Almost always." 

Tommy finds himself, perhaps unsurprisingly, mulling this over for the rest of the day, even over a cold beer in a pub around the corner from his ratty hotel, and when Holmes abruptly sidles onto the bar stool beside him, he only blinks once. 

"Holmes."

"The Inspector suggested that I apologize," Holmes begins, without preamble. His tone is flatly neutral, but his steely eyes sweep Tommy up and down before darting back to the counter. 

"No offence was taken," Tommy notes mildly, and Holmes glances back at him sharply, his face frozen, as though the man has to consciously select his expressions before his muscles start working, and he hasn't yet decided on which.

"You're not curious," Holmes states then, as his face resettles into a twitchy, focused look of what seems to be a clinical sort of fascination. "That's unusual. Especially for a policeman. Curiosity, I would say, is an essential trait for your species."

"The Inspector's told me how you get your results." At Holmes' arched eyebrow, Tommy adds, a little irritably, "Okay, I'll bite. You guessed-"

" _Deduced_. I never guess."

"You 'deduced' what you did, probably from the fact that you can see that I ain't been sleeping well," Tommy continues, dry as dust, "That despite being called straight into _the_ Scotland Yard as a guest I ain't bothered too much with getting all kitted up, though you can tell from my clothes that I 'preciate quality. Obviously, I've got a lot on my mind. And maybe you can see that my shoes still have damaged soles and nicks that could only have come from being buried alive, but the fact that I'm still wearing them clearly indicates the incident's still fresh with me. Close?"

"Remarkably," Holmes blinks rapidly, "I retract my implications about your law enforcement abilities."

"Thanks."

"I had other observations," Holmes rocks back in his seat, still ramrod stiff. "I admit a certain professional interest as to whether you would be able to, as astutely-"

"Look," Tommy cuts in, because he's tired and because he's finished his beer, "How d'you want to do this? Your place or mine?" When Holmes blinks again, Tommy allows himself a faint smirk, and Holmes' expression freezes, recalculating. "Guess."

"I _deduce_ ," Holmes corrects, with a touch of irritation, though he drums his fingers in a brief, spidery staccato on the polished wood. "I suppose I did go to all that trouble to track you down here, and no doubt the Inspector or his team has waxed lyrical about my social life or lack thereof." 

True. "I suppose you did. Question stands."

"Your place," Holmes decides, after a pause. "There's a rather delicate chemical experiment going on at mine, and it might prove confronting to the uninitiated."

1.0.

The lieutenant - divorced one daughter near-ambidextrous second generation migrant bisexual dog person lactose intolerant non-practicing Catholic - is a puzzle after all, Sherlock decides, pleased. American through and through, but quiet, measured, surprisingly and highly intelligent, intuitive, and yet - and yet -

The sex starts off pleasant, but uninspiring. Sherlock compartmentalises the ache in his elbows, his knees, his cock, his mind set on the Whitechapel slasher murders as his body flushes hot and wire-tight with Gregson between his thighs. The man's good with his mouth, which is a little of a surprise, given his day job and social stereotypes, but Sherlock's long learned to accept the various curiosities of nature that humanity presents. 

Then Gregson abruptly slinks back up, planting his big hands on either sides of Sherlock's shoulders, his gaze steady and thoughtful, his ruddy skin and swollen cock the only sign of his arousal. 

"Hey."

Reluctantly, Sherlock frowns up at him. "Well, carry on then."

Annoyingly enough, Gregson doesn't move. "I _can_ tell when you're not all there, by the way."

 _That_ makes Sherlock blink. "How could you tell?" he asks, genuinely surprised. He hasn't had complaints, or at least, not recently. His mind usually disconnects to do computations while his body sates itself, and its automated mechanics of arousal and responsive vocalisations had, until now, served Sherlock passably. 

The lieutenant stares at him for a moment, then he notes, dryly, "You wanna know?" 

"Obviously, or I wouldn't have asked."

"No, I meant… " Gregson hesitates, then he snorts, and to Sherlock's considerable irritation, lies down on the bed next to Sherlock, hands clasped over his chest. It's a fully ridiculous tableau, two aroused grown men naked and lying side by side on a perfectly decent bed, and Sherlock tells him so. Gregson merely smirks. "Figure it out, then."

"You don't seem offended," Sherlock begins by eliminating the obvious. 

"Suppose I could be," Gregson notes, but he's clearly more amused than anything.

"And you find me attractive or you wouldn't have propositioned me." 

"Go on, flatter yourself," Gregson drawls, and it's a warm and curious sound that makes Sherlock's heart rate pick up, illogically. 

"You were expecting some sort of mutually athletic endeavour? Lieutenant, sex is a physical release, as necessary and as unsentimental as other bodily… exertions that are essential to keeping my brain functional. I am, to the extent that this is to be achieved, a full participant in the process." 

"You meet all sorts in this job," the lieutenant in question mutters, though he seems to be talking to himself, and Sherlock stares pointedly at him for a moment, growing irritable all over again at the waste of a perfectly good evening, then he stiffens up as Gregson reaches over and hauls him down for a kiss. He keeps his mouth reproachfully closed, but Gregson licks against him anyway, lazy and playful, until Sherlock finally relents and allows the liberty.

Whenever his mind tries to disengage, however, Gregson seems to sense it, somehow, and would nip him, or tighten his grip over the back of Sherlock's neck, and snap him back into place. It's frustrating and intriguing and presumptuous all at once, this casual too-masculine show of dominance, and Sherlock isn't sure what to think of it all when Gregson lets him back up. 

"I could ground you," Gregson offers them, in his measured and thoughtful manner. "Don't know you so well, though."

Sherlock carefully parses the Americanisms, and grimaces. "BDSM?"

"Not particularly." Big fingers crook down, a thumb pressing confidently over the curve of his jaw to his pulse before skating back up to his neck, and despite himself, Sherlock shivers, his lips parting. 

"All right," he finds himself saying, and Gregson drags him down for another kiss, rougher this time, stinging, and for his trouble Sherlock rakes his blunt nails hard down Gregson's chest.

This time round, Gregson dispenses with propriety and just blithely holds Sherlock down against the bed with his greater strength and weight, fucks him until Sherlock's aching and wailing, his mind locked tight from the hand curled firmly but carefully over the name of his neck and the rough questions growled against his ear in that liquid and illogical drawl- 

When Sherlock comes, eventually and not without begging and even then, only at Gregson's sufferance, it's shattering. The machine of his mind seems to careen to a shocked and dissonant halt, his senses blind to everything but the white hot pulse of release. It's euphoric. It's frightening. He's floating, disoriented, blind to the heartbeat of the world, and it feels like the only measure of peace he has ever known. 

"All right?" Gregson asks mildly, somewhere behind him. His voice's drifting away, heading somewhere - bathroom, Sherlock's mind reluctantly supplies, as he prods at it - but it pauses and comes back, closer, when he doesn't respond. "Hey."

"If you have any interest in future promotion you should improve your vocabulary," Sherlock retorts, or he tries to; he only manages some sort of croak. Gregson snorts, and wanders off, returning with a cloth and water. Sherlock switches off and shuts his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, his unravelled mind already worming back into gear. 

"You have the make of a very excellent detective," Sherlock tells Gregson later, as they lie tangled and sated. He's usually fastidious with his male partners, what with all the sweat and the stink of it all and the torrid heat of another male body, but his uncommonly sated mind's fascinated with Gregson now, enough to ignore the way the lieutenant's curled against him. 

"Thanks," Gregson drawls in return, amused, sleepy. He's not a handsome man, Sherlock thinks critically, but his mind, oh, his _mind_ , his _instincts_. Gregson isn't quite the way Sherlock is, or Mycroft, but in a way, in his own way, he's close. It's intriguing. 

"You should consult," Sherlock probes his fascination, tries another angle. "It'll free your mind. Police bureaucracy and precinct politics are distractions." 

"I'm fine where I am." Gregson notes without moving, still amused, and his measured, steady patience is an unusual, comforting thing. Usually, his varied casual bedmates would have asked him to shut up or pretended at sleep by now. " _You_ would have been a terrible officer."

"Indubitably," Sherlock agrees, studying the ridged scar over Gregson's shoulders, with the ugly dull pink of healing flesh. "It takes a certain breed of person to run towards danger." 

"Rather than stop and analyse it?" 

There's no edge to Gregson's words, and encouraged, Sherlock continues, "I would say, that would be a rarer breed of person altogether." 

Gregson snorts. "There's always space for that later."

"If there's a later," Sherlock amends, and touches the scar anyway, ignoring the slight flinch from the warm bulk against him. "I am glad that you survived, Lieutenant. As trivial as my opinion may be in this regard."

"I think we should be done with titles by now," Gregson retorts, though there's something wry in his smile as he shifts up to mouth a messy kiss over Sherlock's mouth. Usually, he'll jerk away - sexual urges already satisfied and all that - but Sherlock finds himself waiting it out, stiff, but passive, and after a moment, he opens his mouth again.

II.

Sherlock's an infrequent visitor to the non-homicide departments of New Scotland Yard, but he still appears randomly after hours, usually at the pub, and once, memorably, in the act of blithely breaking into Tommy's hotel room. The sex on _that_ night had been loud enough that it had prompted the poor concierge to ring up the room to inform them that the other hotel guests had asked them to kindly (fucking) pipe down.

It's unpredictable, though, and Tommy decides not to pry. It's obvious that Sherlock is brilliant, quite possibly the most brilliant person Tommy has ever met, and it's just as obvious that Inspector Lestrade and his team has made special effort to handle Sherlock carefully. This attitude is unusual for a squad, especially a squad on the homicide beat, and that tells Tommy a hell of a lot about Sherlock that Sherlock might never have wanted him to know. 

Still. Tommy's a guest in London, and he's due to fly back in a month, so he takes the sex and the semi-stalking and the occasional totally out of left field quasi-interrogations about his personal life and his abilities as a police officer in stride. He's good at that. And besides, Sherlock's a nice distraction from the depths of his own mind, and of late, it's been easier to think over New Scotland Yard's unusual consultant than to remember the dark of the burial tomb, choked with concrete, dust, and the muffled screams of his friends. 

Sherlock doesn't show up at the airport when Tommy has to go, and in a way, he's not surprised. Sentiment seems to require a conscious effort where Sherlock is concerned. Maybe someday the man will change, Tommy thinks wryly, as he boards the plane. How the world would shake. 

Then it happens anyway, and it's heartbreaking. Sherlock shows up again, years after, when Tommy is now _Captain_ Gregson of the NYPD, too thin, but still sharp as glass and ramrod stiff. Tommy noses around, out of habit if nothing else, finds out the inevitable, and to his own surprise, keeps his silence. Sherlock's twitchy and even more unpredictable now, and he no longer looks at Tommy as though he's trying to figure out something unfathomable within the mad confines of his head, but he's still as brilliant as ever and Tommy has always, philosophically, tried to take what help he could get.

He's glad for Watson, when Watson somehow bumbles into the picture and ends up staying there. She's a fish far out of water, and gets into her own share of trouble because of it, but Tommy can see how she anchors Sherlock, keeps him rooted and pieced up. Sherlock's learned sentiment, somewhere in London, and it shows: Tommy's surprised that Watson takes so long to pick up on it.

And then that _woman_ explodes back into the picture, and well. What a fucking mess. 

Tommy stands with Sherlock in the now empty hospital room as Miss Moriarty is marched off in cuffs, his hands stuffed in his pockets as Sherlock dresses efficiently. He's trying to think of something to say, when Sherlock notes, mildly, "You don't have to stay, Captain."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Tommy replies absently, and kicks himself mentally when Sherlock straightens up, shirt still half-unbuttoned. He looks vulnerable somehow, tired and broken up and crammed back together, and it's Watson who's done that, Tommy knows, Watson who pieced him together and held him there just through the force of her stubborn will. 

He wishes, a little, that it had been him. It's a dumb thought, and it makes him grin a little.

"London was a long time ago," Sherlock says finally, but he doesn't touch the buttons on his shirt.

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, and keeps his hands where they are even when Sherlock steps up and into his personal space. "Holmes."

"A while ago you told me that you were done with titles," Sherlock murmurs, and his brilliant eyes are hypnotic as he leans up, then he lets out a soft sound and blinks as Tommy hastily grabs at his shoulder. "That you could ground me. You have before. I-"

"Not today, Holmes." Sherlock opens his mouth, and Tommy adds quickly, without thinking, "And not tomorrow either. Go home. Sleep. Eat. Break a few things. Punch a wall, maybe. Then come back to the precinct and work a few cases."

"And then?" Sherlock inquiries, and the desperate wildness is gone; he's ramrod straight again, his eyes assessing, curious. 

"And _after_ that," Tommy stresses the words, "Maybe you should come and look for me after hours again." 

Sherlock lets out a long, slow breath, as though they've never had all of one lifetime in between London and where they are now, and then he smiles. It's tight, humorless, and wire-sharp, but it's there.

2.0.

Joan walks in on them once, when he's curled his lanky form over Gregson's lap in the living room, and to her credit she only stares at them for a moment before shaking her head and traipsing up the stairs to her room.

"You've put her through a lot," Gregson tells him dryly, his hands stroking up his waist again, under his shirt. That's one thing that he's always liked about Gregson, Sherlock decides. He's almost at the same wavelength, and a lot of unnecessary conversation never does need to happen. 

Gregson snorts, when Sherlock tells him this. "How many times have I told you to call me 'Tommy'?"

"Three," Sherlock recalls, "And a half."

"And a half?" Gregson sounds amused, though he tugs Sherlock over for a kiss, indicating that he does know precisely why there were fractions involved in the count. He's unusually quiet in bed, probably mindful of Joan, and Sherlock makes sure that he's obnoxiously loud just to compensate. 

In the morning, Gregson's already made tea, and is at the dining table, working through toast while chatting comfortably with Joan, deliciously rumpled in a discolouring gray sweater and crinkled trousers. Sherlock drapes his half-naked frame over the wooly, warm bulk of Gregson's back and grabs at his cup of tea, obnoxious to the last. Gregson makes no move to shift him off, and Joan wrinkles her nose at them.

"Do I want to know how long your 'utmost respect' for the Captain has run?"

"London," Sherlock shrugs, even as Gregson notes dryly, "It's not like that." 

"The sex is good," Sherlock elaborates, petty when he wants to be, but even as Gregson snorts, Joan's holding up her hands.

"Okay. Forget that I asked," she declares illogically, and retreats to her room.

"You should be grateful that she's stuck around," Gregson informs him, when Sherlock's drained the cup of tea and has started to pour himself another. "Try to be nicer to her."

"She's not the only one whose persistence I'm grateful for," Sherlock concedes, and makes an irritated noise when Gregson seems to take this as an invitation to drag him into his lap. The kiss isn't too bad, though, or the next, and reluctantly, Sherlock relaxes, his hands stiff on Gregson's broad shoulders. When he starts to drift, Gregson nips him, and he jerks back with a glare that only earns him a snort and another kiss. 

He can still feel the raw wound that Moriarty has torn within him, pick at the edges of it and retreat from the occasional agonising stab of old memory, of betrayal. He won't heal - not soon, perhaps not ever. But here today, as before, Gregson grounds him, and his mind resettles, rooted and put together, and rests, as he shifts his weight and presses closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, hope you guys enjoyed that. Just wanted to write something brief and short. D: Everything is due next Wednesday!
> 
> If you want to chat about this fic, or any ficbunnies etc, life, the universe, I can be found on twitter: @manic_intent ;3


End file.
